


if you hadn't found me

by bwyn



Series: space aces [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Asexual Character, F/M, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: A collection of drabbles set following (or during) the events of the previous ficSummary of the prev fic:“How far are you willing to go?”“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging helplessly and feeling sick – at himself, at his mother, at the world in general.How far was he willing to go for somebody he’d never met? Yet, or ever?AKA Lance is ace and full of love, Keith dives headfirst into office shenanigans, things are suspended in Jell-O, coffee is a gift, and the office mascot is a domesticated goat named Annihilator.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’m legit.. so.. overwhelmed by the all the comments and like esp all the ones w “AS AN ACE” and like there may have been Real Tears in my eyes. If I replied to all the comments I’d just end up copying and pasting the same crying face so INSTEAD I decided to write a bunch of drabbles as a thank you ( ˘ ³˘)♥

**Security Blanket**

 

Lance has always been a pretty touchy-feely person. He likes being able to lounge without trivial worries like “ah our fingers touched what does this mean” or “oh no my knee touched their leg the world will end”. However, when it comes to Keith, Lance realizes that any sort of boundary he’d set for himself became moot as soon as they started dating. During work, Lance will drape himself over Keith as he taps away at his keyboard, nudge his chair over in the break room until their knees are pressing against each other, and he will always initiate hugs whether they’re saying goodbye, hello, or he just really wants a hug, okay? So it comes to Lance’s attention one day that it might be possible he’s _smothering_ Keith. He knows Keith isn’t as much of a physical person as Lance, and he knows that maybe he should give the guy more space, but it’s near impossible to do so.

 

So instead of enveloping Keith in another hug at the end of the workday, Lance simply hooks their arms together as they walk. Instead of nuzzling his head in the crook of Keith’s neck as they wait for the elevator to take them up to Lance and Allura’s apartment, he settles for only letting their shoulders touch. He’s convinced he’s doing good, that eventually he’ll be able to maybe not feel like his skin is magnetized to Keith. They enter the apartment, get the popcorn buttered and salted for their Friday movie night, and when they sit on the couch, Lance hardens his resolve. Whereas usually Lance lays his head on Keith’s waist and sometimes is devoured by the minute gap between the couch cushion and the frame, Lance chooses to lean against the armrest in a mirror image of Keith doing the same on the other side. Their feet are overlapping and the popcorn is dubiously safe in front of them, and Lance feels weirdly chilled. The air in the apartment isn’t even cool, but Lance knows it’s got something to do with him not being within reach to ruffle Keith’s hair.

 

It’s unpleasant (downright awful) but Lance tries to convince himself to be proud of not forcing his affections on Keith.

 

And it’s not even a quarter of an hour into the movie when the fidgeting begins. Lance shifts without realizing it, and when he does, he tries to keep it on the down low. For whatever reason (he knows exactly why) he can’t get comfortable. His foot feels like it’s numbing, his hip is refusing to accept any shift without twinging, and his neck seems to be questioning why his head is being supported by his hand instead of Keith’s ribs.

 

It’s terrible, Lance can’t focus on the movie, and even with his sleeves tugged over his hands, they still feel cold.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

 _No Keith, I am not,_ is what Lance is tempted to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods vigorously and plasters a smile on his face.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says in what he hopes is a convincing voice, “I’m fine.”

 

But even though Keith drops it, Lance is still thrumming with restlessness. When he isn’t staring with unseeing eyes at the screen, Lance focuses on his periphery. He can see Keith shooting him glances. Or maybe he isn’t, and it’s just the lighting from the movie playing out.

 

Until Lance tries to sneak a glance and catches Keith’s eye. He snaps his gaze ahead again, but he’s pretty sure Keith is still staring at him. It’s awkward, but Lance does his best not to show his obvious discomfort. He stills completely. He tries to smooth his brow.

 

Then Keith is removing his feet from between Lance’s. The half eaten bowl of popcorn is moved to the coffee table. He begins to rise, and Lance for one paranoid, horrible moment thinks that Keith is just going to _leave_ instead of maybe going to the bathroom or getting a glass of water or any of the other plausible explanations–

 

Except all those explanations are rendered moot as Keith shoves himself – almost petulantly – between Lance and the couch. A hand moves Lance’s arm so Keith can rest his head on his side, and he drapes the arm over his available shoulder. Looking down at him, wide-eyed, Lance realizes Keith’s mimicked the same position Lance himself usually takes.

 

His heart hiccups as a result.

 

So, to keep with the theme, Lance hesitantly lifts his hand from Keith’s shoulder and slowly brushes his fingers through his hair. Almost immediately, Keith practically melts against him. The stiffness in his body disappears, and a small sound comes from the back of his throat. The couch will undoubtedly claim him by the end of the movie, Lance knows, because it’s happened to him. With the knowledge that Keith is presently feeling what Lance has all those other nights, Lance is uncertain whether his heart will finally, _finally_ beat right out of his chest.

 

Keith’s arm wraps around Lance’s middle and tucks his hand beneath him.

 

Lance is gone.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Aliens**

 

There are an estimated twenty-two aliens lounging around the office. Five are in plain sight, such as the one that sits beneath the hinges of the stairwell door, eternal in its position as no one has moved it since it showed up. The only other one that hasn’t been moved since its appearance is the short green one that glares down from the top of the HR department’s filing cabinets. Five never leave the break room, but shift around by the hour, and many more just simply _appear_ in the middle of the floor. There is also an alien on the fan. It’s different from the one that sat there last. This time it’s neon pink, bulbous head, tiny hands with fingers that aren’t even cut separate. It’s not the same one with the eyeliner, although _that_ one needs a refresher with the amount of wear on its makeup.

 

Presently, Clara is sitting at her desk, green tea cupped between her hands and her heavy-lidded gaze on the neon figurine. The blades of the fan have been turning slowly for the past few minutes – it always takes a short while for the thing to really get going. She wonders if there’s a lifeline attached to this one, too, a flailing extraterrestrial morning star.

 

At his desk by the window, Clara can see her coworker in her periphery. Or at least, she knows he’s there. Currently he has another human lying over his back like a blanket and making groaning sounds. Clara knows that in spite of the man draped over him, her coworker persists at his work – since that is what he always does.

 

The fan is speeding up. She wonders if the alien is taped or sticky-tacked to the blade. Whoever did it would have had to wipe some of the grime. It’s disgusting – Clara knows. And sticky-tack is weak – Clara knows this as well because she tried to use the blue gunk to attach the same alien to Annie’s horns. It had gone flying. Incidentally, also a great way to spread aliens without anyone the wiser.

 

Her coworker and his friend are having a hushed argument about whatever is displayed on the computer screen. She hesitates to call them boyfriends, because she’s never seen them kiss like the other explicit couples do, but at the same time they’re constantly sharing brief touches of hands and shoulders, or entire draping bodies. Clara almost wants to say they’re like some new breed of no-homo-bro, except there is no line they appear disinclined to cross. There’s no sexual tension, but they definitely shoot each other looks of pure, uncontested adoration. She decides she isn’t really going out on a limb when she concludes they must actually be dating.

 

A clump of sticky dust dislodges from the fan. When was the last time the fans were washed? The figurines perform dual purpose now: hide and seek, and sentries of unknown and avoided pockets of grossness in the office.

 

And then the figurine flies, a beautiful shallow arc through the air, and clocks the human blanket in the head. He looks absolutely stunned. The alien is stuck between the window blinds.

 

Clara snorts into her tea.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

**Goats?**

 

There turns out to be a lot of work to be done in the branch office. Pidge doesn’t mind being out of the home office for a little while. It gives her something new to think through, even if the machines are pretty much the same throughout. The issues she has to fix are like a Venn diagram across the offices: a broad overlap where it’s just Business As Usual, and a sliver on the individual circles where Shit Gets Weird. At HO, it’s hyperfunctional systems that get ahead of the game and try to do work before the employee sitting at the computer can (Pidge took responsibility for that one simply because there was no way out of it).

 

Here, it’s goats.

 

A single mottled, female goat, specifically, with a bell on a glittery gold collar.

 

The explanation given to her by one of the employees – _office companion animal –_ didn’t actually explain a whole lot. Then again, it seems to be fulfilling the role of one of the Great Wonders of the Office (incidentally, she’d created one of her own at HO: the Benevolent Teapot).

 

Now Pidge is crouched by the printer, taking a look at the wiring between the machine and the wall. Somehow, it does, in fact, look chewed. And not with tiny little mice teeth. Like, big teeth. Grinding molars.

 

There’s also an alien figurine jammed back there, which Pidge moves to sit on the alternative paper tray.

 

It’s as Pidge is seeing if the damage is fixable when she catches sight of the goat. It’s barely ten meters away, sniffing at something at the base of the wall. Then it lifts its head and moves on. Pidge hesitates for maybe two seconds before leaving the printer to tail the animal.

 

The goat begins in human resources, tiptoeing as all ungulates do, but with purpose like she knows exactly where she is going and why. At one desk, the goat halts and waits until the employee sitting there reaches down to give her a pat. Then she moves on. Like this, she works her way around the department, Pidge following at a careful distance and trying to appear like she belongs there. At the man who had introduced the goat in the first place, the hoofed animal doesn’t just pause, but shoves her head into his lap. She stays like that until she’s received enough scratches to her liking, and then finishes her circuit of the room. Pidge follows.

 

At the break room, Pidge positions herself at a corner of the hallway when the goat walks in. She can hear the happy sounds of employees greeting her with _hello Annie_ ’s and _for luck_ ’s.

 

An uncertain voice in Pidge’s ear causes her to jolt forward. “What are you doing?”

 

When she spins, she sees her coworker and friend frowning down at her in confusion. He casts his gaze around, it pauses at an alien staring from a bookshelf, before returning to Pidge.

 

“Nothing, Hunk, I’m… doing nothing,” she says haltingly, already outwardly cringing as the words tumble out awkwardly.

 

“O–kay,” says Hunk, because even though Pidge knows he’s concerned about her clearly odd behaviour, unless it gets dangerous, he’ll let it happen.

 

So Pidge returns to her work at the printer, managing to salvage the wire and reinforce it against further gnawing. She grabs her tools and heads towards the next department. There’s a flushing sound from the bathroom, and then shortly after the door opens up in front of Pidge and out walks the goat. Pidge stares down at her. The goat glances at her fleetingly before walking away. The technician is, understandably, baffled. Her tailing resumes.

 

The goat heads back where Pidge came from – into finances – and does her same rounds there as she did in human resources. After that comes the graphics department. As the goat approaches one of the men – a mess of black hair that Pidge recognizes from that day in the break room – he reaches into his desk to pull out a plate of what appears to be carrot cake. As Pidge looks on, he glances around surreptitiously before presenting the food to the goat. When she's done scarfing it down, the goat moves on. Most of the others give her a pat or a scratch as she passes. One woman with a massive mug of green tea ties what looks to be a hammock between the goat’s horns, followed by a little orange alien to tuck inside.

 

Pidge, deciding she’s seen enough, returns to Hunk’s side in the otherwise empty break room.

 

"This place is really weird,” she says.

 

Hunk gives her an odd look. “Last week at HO, you set all the computers so they’d automatically play a video of Gandalf dancing when the Internet browser was opened.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Coran wouldn’t stop humming the song.”

 

“I see your point,” says Pidge, “But the _goat_.”

 

“Yeah,” admits Hunk, nodding, “The goat is pretty weird.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**The Hero is Always Straight**

 

It’s a Saturday night, late, and four people with minds wide awake are sitting on the couch as a movie plays on the TV. Allura leans against Shiro, her feet tucked between herself and the armrest, and Shiro’s arm over her shoulders. Meanwhile, Lance and Keith are a human pretzel, their limbs a mess and tangled together in a way that Allura doesn’t think is comfortable. But they don’t move.

 

On screen, the main conflict of the plot has already been introduced, and the hero is about to make his first appearance. Allura knew going into this that the protagonist was very straight, but she apparently forgot just how much the video went out of its way to prove it. Namely, an unnecessary sex scene between the hero and several paramours.

 

“Why?” mutters Lance from the other side of the couch.

 

Allura hopes it’ll end at that. Stopping movies for discussions wasn’t a strange thing to happen in their apartment. Personally, she has no interest in empty romances in films. There’s no need for her to live vicariously through them when she has her own embodiment of perfection currently nestled beside her.

 

But then Keith replies, “They need to make it _really clear_ he’s hetero.”

 

“But _why?_ ”

 

“Let’s ask society.”

 

“Society, why?”

 

They stop when Allura shushes them.

 

There’s several beats of silence, the sex scene is nearly finished, the action will start any moment –

 

“Sex isn't even that great,” whispers Lance, very audibly, “It’s all… mushy.”

 

Another beat of silence, this time because everyone is staring at Lance from their periphery. Allura, personally, can’t reconcile the image of Lance doing the dirty with the one that fake retches every time he sees an exposed nipple on screen. Then she realizes her mind has already been tainted by imagining Lance–

 

No. Just… _no_.

 

Lance catches them sneaking glances and snorts. “You all assumed I’d never gotten my dick wet, huh?”

 

Allura feels rather than hears Shiro’s gag at the choice of words.

 

“I touched another dick once,” whispers Keith. His expression is haunted.

 

Lance pets his hair to console him.

 

They watch the rest of the movie in relative silence – but Allura suddenly can’t stop thinking about sex as mushy.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Stress and Support**

Objectively, it’s been a shitty day. Keith hasn’t had a chance to relax since he came into work that morning, and he’s had too many cups of coffee and there’s a throbbing coming on behind his eyes that has nothing to do with his glasses or the caffeine. The coworker that usually acts as the mediator between the clients and himself is swamped dealing with a larger, more demanding project, and no matter how stressed Keith is now, he knows he couldn’t have asked for help before everything hit the fan in the first place. He emailed the client involved with his current project himself and it’s been a shit storm the entire day since.

 

They refuse to respond promptly, and when they do, the answers Keith’s looking for are vague and unhelpful, laced with petty sarcasm. Every consecutive email only increases his stress as he hurries to finish the project at hand. The client had asked for it by the end of the day, but despite their demands, they’re refusing to give him the information he needs to do a good job of it.

 

On top of that, Lance is sick at home. Keith receives the occasional text from him, updates on how he’s feeling, what he’s doing, attempts at cheering Keith up when he has the time to rant about how awful the client is. But unfortunately, there’s nothing Lance can really do when the day is trying its damned hardest to be an asshole.

 

So he translates the client’s emails the best he can when his last contact goes unanswered as the end of the workday nears. He finishes up, flattens the layers for a moment to make sure they don’t screw up when he saves, then sends off the product to the client. Once that’s done, he leans back in his chair, pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes with the heels of his palms. Blindly he reaches for his mug of coffee, but it’s empty. He groans and drops his hands.

 

Clara approaches his desk from the direction of the break room. She cocks an eyebrow at his mug and the multiple coffee stains that ring it at different intervals. Keith tries to grin sheepishly but it comes off as a grimace. Clara cringes at his expression.

 

“Try this instead,” she says, putting a steaming mug on his desk, “Don’t turn your nose up, just drink the whole thing.”

 

Keith leans over and he doesn’t even need to see the contents before he smells the earthy scent of tea. “Ugh.”

 

“Please.”

 

“Fine,” sighs Keith, then adds because he doesn’t want to be an ass, “Thanks.”

 

She pats him on the shoulder and leaves him to contemplate the tea. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Keith can’t deny that he _really_ needs a drink, and if it’s not coffee, as long as it’s hot, he can deal. So he reaches over and cups the mug between his hands, drawing it to his face. He sniffs, wrinkles his nose, and takes a hesitant sip.

 

It’s probably thanks to the soothing tea that Keith doesn’t bust a vein when he receives a response from the client. In short, the end product is full of things they specified _not_ be included (Keith is 100% certain that’s a lie), they claim it’s shoddy work, that they expected a finalized copy, and furthermore, they demand it be redone by midnight with a list of changes. When Keith reads through the list, inhaling the calming steam from the tea, it’s comprised of all the answers to the questions he’d asked before lunch.

 

He sips his tea. He’s going to be late getting home as is.

 

 _Spite fuel me_ , Keith thinks as he puts the entire email exchange in a folder, complete with the product he’d made, and emails it off to Jeff, the usual middleman.

 

Then Keith turns in his chair to look at the man. “Jeff.”

 

His coworker looks up, looking as haggard as Keith expects he himself did. “Yeah?”

 

“I sent you an email,” says Keith, voice flat, “I don’t want to dump it on you, but I just can’t deal with this.”

 

Apprehension crosses Jeff’s face as he looks at his computer screen. His gaze flicks across it, skimming the contents of Keith’s email. His expression settles into one of sympathy as he looks at Keith.

 

“You’re totally in the right here,” he says, then sighs, “You go home. I’ll email these shitheads and CC bossman with everything so he doesn’t cap your ass.”

 

Keith feels like he might cry. “You’re the best.”

 

“I know.”

 

Keith leaves the office feeling like shit, even knowing he isn’t expected to stay until midnight like he’s in college again. There’s a pressure in his throat that’s reminiscent of near tears, and his eyes are stinging. The headache’s been a staple since lunch.

 

The weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift until he’s letting himself into Allura and Lance’s apartment. He kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his coat and tosses his bag into a corner of the hall. There’s a strained voice greeting him faintly from Lance’s bedroom and Keith goes to it immediately. Lance is cocooned in numerous blankets, there’s an abundance of crumpled balls of tissue on the floor and his eyes and nose are red and both watering. But when he sees Keith, his face lights up and he’s beaming like Keith is healing him by just standing in the doorway.

 

Meanwhile, Keith knows for fact that Lance is healing _him_ when the knot in his stomach unravels and his throat clears and his eyes no longer sting. Lance barely opens his mouth to croak something before Keith is diving onto the bed.

 

“Wha–Hey! You’ll get sick, too!” protests Lance as Keith burrows stubbornly under the covers, trying to locate Lance’s fever warmth.

 

“I don’t care!”

 

“You should!”

 

“But I don’t!”

 

Keith’s searching hands find the fabric of Lance’s shirt, and then his side as he yelps when Keith pokes him. Victorious, Keith wrestles his way fully in until he can wrap his arms around Lance and tuck his head into Lance’s neck. Mumbling hoarsely but giving in nonetheless, Lance rearranges the displaced blankets so they’re successfully cocooned again. He’s too warm against Keith, his skin burning through Keith’s clothes, but the man couldn’t care in the least. He holds Lance close until the last of the day’s stress melts from him. Nimble fingers starts to brush through his hair, and Keith sighs.

 

“Rough day?” asks Lance.

 

“The worst,” mumbles Keith.

 

“It’s because you didn’t give Annie your spaghetti last week.”

 

“I’ll make up for it,” says Keith, tightening his hold and trying to get impossibly closer to Lance. He sticks his nose into the hollow of Lance’s throat and earns a cold-ravaged chuckle.

 

“Okay, okay, but you can’t if you get sick,” points out Lance.

 

“I can’t even begin to explain,” says Keith into Lance’s neck, “How much I do not care.”

 

There’s another chuckle at that, but Lance doesn’t try to push Keith away. In the end, they fall asleep like that. It isn’t a peaceful sleep in the least – _way_ too warm – and in the morning half the blankets are on the floor and Lance is snoring through his mouth. But when they wake up, Keith is sleep-heavy and there’s no trace of the stress and anxiety from the day before. Then Lance sniffles, and Keith sniffles, and Keith realizes there’s a scratch in his throat that is getting worse every time he tries to swallow the sensation away.

 

“I told you,” Lance says as Keith tries to get up, but immediately collapses back onto the bed when the room spins around him.

 

Keith still can’t bring himself to care. The fever is probably already setting in. He smiles at Lance, reaching out to touch his cheek.

 

“But it gives me the whole day to cuddle you,” Keith says warmly.

 

Lance stares at him and makes the same sound he usually reserves for when he sees puppies and kittens.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS:  
> at some point Lance has definitely said to someone who asked about them “I love him but I don’t want his dick in my mouth”
> 
> OKAY now I can focus on Foreign Scenes after the holidays


End file.
